T HERE WERE FIVE charity shops in the village, all providing good used clothing, often with impressive labels, to the astute shopper, and offering, as well, an occasional antique treasure that would turn out to be worth considerably more than the buyer paid for it. The senior ladies hit these shops regularly and then sold their finds on eBay, always making a nice profit.
The treasure that Kit was after had nothing to do with monetary gain-and everything to do with nailing a killer. It was late afternoon when she left Molena Point PD heading for the small SPCA resale shop just a few blocks away. She would have maybe half an hour until the stores closed.
As she raced across the roofs and down to the sidewalk, her mind was half on finding the killer’s scent, and half worrying about Ryan lying unconscious in the hospital-seeing over and over again that woman and then Leroy hitting Ryan, seeing Ryan fall, seeing blood start from the wound across Ryan’s forehead.
Kit crossed the last street close on the heels of a pair of gossiping young women who were hurrying back to work in the library. When she heard someone behind her gush, “Oh, look at the cute kitty,” she ran full out, never eager to consort with tourists, certainly not anxious to endure strangers’ too-personal stroking and petting-she could leave that familiarity to the canine crowd. Dogs loved that smarmy attention. Dogs loved the admiration of people they’d never seen before and would never see again. Baby talk from strangers. That stuff sent a dog right to the moon, inanely wagging and wriggling.
Leaping up three steps to the brick alley where half a dozen shops were tucked away, Kit skirted around a planter of red poinsettias, approaching the open door of the SPCA resale shop. She would have to get in and out before Davis and the child did, or the little girl’s new scent would be all over everything. Fresh and old scents all mixed up, and she’d be able to find nothing.
Slipping inside, she melted behind a rack of men’s sport coats, keeping low until she could spot the clerk. Charity shops weren’t heavy on personnel, most of whom were volunteers. Rearing up, she saw a woman behind a far counter, and she could hear a radio playing softly in the back room, as if maybe someone was back there sorting donations. Padding along the racks, and past a display of luggage and tired-looking tennis rackets, she spotted the children’s dresses.
Quickly she sniffed along the little hems, keeping out of sight, forgetting as she often did that she was only a cat, that it wouldn’t matter if the clerk saw her-most shops didn’t mind a cat wandering in. Reaching the end of the rack of little dresses and shirts and pants, she’d found no scent of the child.
She could see no more children’s clothes, and she moved to the men’s racks, again rearing up and sniffing. But, again, nothing.
She left the SPCA empty-pawed, racing for the next shop, four blocks away. She had maybe twenty minutes before the stores closed. Was Ryan still unconscious? Had she come to? What was happening to her?
Had she, upon awakening, remembered cats talking close to her face, remembered Joe Grey using her cell phone? Oh, my. Kit hoped not.
But concussions could cause visions, and a kind of dementia, Kit thought. She didn’t wish Ryan bad luck, she wanted her to be whole and well again. But if those were possible symptoms, then surely Ryan would blame such wild ideas as talking cats on the terrible wound in her head.
At Millie’s Treasures, two clerks were in attendance, two elderly ladies with purple-tinted hairdos. Lurking in the shadows, Kit went through the same drill, padding along beneath tables of old books-world globes-antique radios-flowerpots-hiking boots-handbags-suitcases-rag dolls-you name it, to the rack of little girls’ used clothes-almost at once, she caught the child’s scent.
It was just a whiff, but enough! She was so excited she almost yowled. The child’s scent right there on a little blue dress. Yes! Quickly she moved along the rack, rearing up, searching for more of that little girl’s clothes.
She found two more dresses, and some folded jeans and T-shirts atop a table that smelled of the child. She was almost at the end of a second rack when she heard a familiar voice and she rose up to look, balancing with a forepaw against the end of the rack.
Juana Davis stood in the doorway, holding the little girl’s hand. She looked frustrated, and the child looked tired, worn-out, so pale and docile that Kit wanted to pat her face with a soft paw-that little girl was like a sick little kitten.
Kit knew Juana had to put her through this, and knew the detective would make it as easy as she could. But the little girl looked so ill. Well, if she saw her father die, that night, Kit thought, then of course she’s sick. Sick deep inside herself. Watching the pale little girl, Kit let out a tremulous sigh. And now, she thought, that man’s body has been found, and the department will be working all out to ID him. So strange, she thought, that there was no record of the prints that Dallas Garza lifted at the plaza and on the evidence they retrieved. Where in the world did that man, and the killer, come from, that there are no prints on file?
Maybe there were a lot of people in the world, as Joe Grey said, who had never applied for a sensitive job or a federal job, who had never been arrested, and who had never been printed in school as a child to help find them if they were lost. Maybe after all, she thought, the human world was still a bit uncontrolled, not all cataloged and accounted for. And that pleased her, that thought satisfied the independent nature of the young cat.
Kit did not like to see everything organized and made docile, she wanted to sense some stubborn independence among her fellow creatures.
Davis headed on into the shop, walking slowly, talking gently to the child. Bring her here, Kit thought. Right here! Bring her right here! These are her clothes! These! Besides the two dresses and the jeans, she had found two little pairs of corduroy pants, another T-shirt, and a pair of pajamas, all smelling of that particular child. And here they came, Juana heading for the children’s rack, while the little girl’s attention wandered around the store-and suddenly the child came alert.
She stopped, and tried to pull her hand from Juana’s, but Juana didn’t let her go. The child’s eyes were wide, and the hint of a smile touched her pale lips-and with sudden strength she jerked her hand free and ran across the shop straight at Kit.
Drawing back, Kit slipped under the chair. But it wasn’t Kit she was after, it was the heap of stuffed animals and dolls in the far corner. The child passed Kit, never seeing her, and plunged into the little mountain of toys, reaching high among them.
At the very top sat a faded cloth doll with ragged, floppy angel wings, a handmade doll with long and tangled pale hair, a doll with a long white dress, torn and dirty, and with a dark stain on the front, like blood. One little white shoe was missing. The child, climbing to the top of the heap, tumbling animals and dolls all around her, grabbed the angel, hugging it to her, and clambered down again. Stood clutching the dingy creature tight, tears running down her face.
As Juana knelt beside the little girl, Kit drew close behind her, close enough to get a whiff of the doll-she knew a cop’s awareness is as sharp as a cat’s, that a cop misses very little; but Kit was quick. She inhaled one deep scent of the doll then she melted out of sight, vanishing behind a stack of baskets-and thinking hard about the additional scent that clung to the faded angel.
The scent of a man. A scent that left the tortoiseshell kit crouched shivering in the shadows, amazed, hardly able to believe what she had smelled. Not wanting to believe it.
But unable not to believe it.
D ALLAS GARZA SWUNG a U-turn on Molena Valley Road and headed back fast for Highway One, turning north up the coast without sirens, where Mabel had cars moving in-two units up the hill ahead, a third coming fast and silent out of the village, its lights flashing. Two more cars coming down out of the westerly hills, no lights or siren. They’d all be visible from the highway, but there were no side roads where the perps could turn off. They had the van and Suburban in a pincer that would soon close tight. It was hard not to floorboard his unit and run down
the bastards, tooling along there with the traffic in the fast lane.
The detective’s usual quiet, laid-back approach was out the window. This was Ryan they’d messed with. This was his niece. Ryan was like his own daughter, and he was damn well going to nail their asses. Weaving in and out, wishing he could use his siren, he cursed the drivers who weren’t watching behind or who, seeing a cop car in a hurry, didn’t have the courtesy or the sense to get over.
Damn civilians probably thought he was headed for an early dinner. The blue van sure did look like Charlie’s van, from a distance. It was following the tan Suburban with five cars between. Swinging into the right lane and then the bike path, he overtook seven cars on his left, swerved in at the van, and motioned the driver onto the median. He had two units behind him now, Wendell and Hendricks. Using his speaker, he told the van’s driver to stay put, that he was blocked in. Told him to get out of the van and stand in front of it, hands on his head. He took off as Wendell and Hendricks pulled up. He swung into the left lane and hit the gas, giving it the lights and siren, speeding after the Suburban. There was no nearby off-ramp. The five cars ahead, all in the left lane, slowed reluctantly and pulled over, and the Suburban took off like it had been standing still, straight into the pincer between two units.
Dallas pulled in behind as they forced the Suburban onto the median. He heard three shots-and saw the blue van in his mirror, careening at him from behind. The explosion of two shots from that driver’s window jerked him to attention. He hit the brakes to avoid ramming the two units, but as he turned to fire behind him, another shot exploded. He spun the wheel, wondering if he’d been hit. A jam of cars ahead. The two units and the Suburban filled the median. Two more units coming fast on the other side, pulling over to divert traffic. His shoulder wasn’t working right.
He could smell his own blood. Damn it to hell. He didn’t have time for this. Where the hell were Wendell and Hendricks? Then his radio squawked, “Officer down. Officer down,” and he knew one or both had been hit. Blood was seeping through his jacket. When he turned to look behind him, the blue van was gone. In a second he heard the siren of the EMT.
He swung out of the unit swearing as McFarland jerked the female driver out of the Suburban, and Officer Bean, standing on tiptoe, rammed the burly passenger against the vehicle, hands on the roof, Bean’s weapon jammed in the small of the guy’s back.
McFarland was cuffing the woman as she fought and screamed. She had dropped her gun, and McFarland had it safe. More sirens as two more units arrived and another EMT. Dallas’s shoulder was beginning to hurt, he couldn’t make his right hand work. Heading for the dark-haired woman as she twisted and swore, fighting her cuffs, he had to forcefully keep himself from touching her, from pounding the hell out of her. They’d damn near killed Ryan and he wanted to see them hurt, see them dead.
32
R YAN WOKE HEARING voices far away, but she couldn’t see anyone. Fuzzy voices. She was dizzy, so dizzy. Pale walls around her swimming into darkness and tilting back again. Something swung at her from nowhere, a hammer, she tried to duck, caught her breath with pain. A woman swinging a hammer, big woman, darkly clad, her voice blasting loud but then faint. Dizzy. The woman was gone. A man’s voice, blurred. “Mabel…it’s Mabel Mabel Mabel…” She was so cold, cold deep in her bones. “Stanhope studio studio studio studio…Ryan Ryan Ryan Ryan…” Ringing in her ears like diving deep underwater. Fuzzy voices all throbbing and she was falling, falling…
Then men’s voices, coming clearer. She reached up to touch them, but she couldn’t find anyone, her hand met cold metal. Metal bars…
A cell? A prison cell? Why would she be in a cell? No, it was a bed, she was under blankets in a bed. She hit out at the bars, but someone pushed her back. She tried to fight but was pushed down hard against the mattress, strong hands but gentle, easing her down. She had no strength…
She woke to a light burning, a metal lamp, and wondered why she’d been asleep when all she’d wanted was to sit up. A figure leaned over her, making her cringe.
But it was Clyde. It was all right, it was Clyde. As he smoothed her sheet and blanket, she remembered being lifted and carried. White paramedic uniforms. Everything after that seemed far away, car doors slamming, men’s urgent voices, a truck engine, lying on a cot or something, bumping along. Blackness and then bright cruel light in her eyes like a knife, and voices leaping so her head throbbed. It was still throbbing, she tried to pull away from the pain, and couldn’t.
“Be still, Ryan.” Clyde leaning over her again, his reassuring voice. “Lie still.” Again she tried to sit up, but again he held her back. “Lie still, Ryan,” he said in a no-nonsense voice. “You’re in the hospital. You’re going to be fine. You have a concussion, and you have to be still. Someone hit you with a hammer. The doctor wants you to lie still. Do you understand?”
She knew there’d been a hammer, she could hear the shattering sound when it hit her and she felt her belly twist sickly. When she moved, her head hurt bad, she guessed she’d do what Clyde told her, she really didn’t want to move. She tried to remember what had happened.
There had been trucks all around, and forklifts. And parts of little houses cut apart…the playhouses, the contest. But then she was in an empty house. How could there be green hills inside a house? Huge green hills in her face, stormy sky…Then strangers. Two men, and the tall woman. Their startled scowls at her, the woman hissing something…swinging the hammer, then another hammer came at her, the crushing thunk that sent her reeling. She remembered falling, hitting the stone floor…She looked up at Clyde. He leaned down over the bars and kissed her. “There were cats,” she said.
“Cats?”
She tried again to sit up, but he wouldn’t let her. “There were cats. I was lying on a stone floor. Cold. Cats were looking down at me. Your cat, Clyde. Joe Grey. But they…” She swallowed, her mouth dry.
He lifted her head enough to guide a bent straw to her lips. She drank, then reached her hand to feel the tightness across her forehead, to feel the thick bandage. “They were talking, Clyde. Talking.”
“Who was talking? The medics? They-”
“The cats. The cats were talking.”
Clyde smiled. “You do have a concussion.”
“I could see light in the roof. Skylights. There were huge green hills inside the room. But then when the cats came, the hills were gone. It was all stone walls. Cold. Cold stone floor, cold under me.
“I was in the Stanhope studio,” she said, looking at him more clearly. “And the three cats were there. Your cat. Wilma’s cat. The Greenlaws’ cat. Standing over me. Talking about me.”
His mouth twisted. “You had a concussion. Dr. Hamry says-”
“Talking, Clyde. I swear.” And in her head, the voices repeated themselves, Mabel Mabel Mabel Mabel…Ryan Ryan Ryan Ryan…She looked intently at him. “I swear. Cats. I heard cats talking. Something about my cell phone, and then Mabel Mabel Mabel…”
Clyde grinned. “That’ll be the day, when a cat talks. I wouldn’t want to be around to see that. I’m surprised you didn’t think Rock was there, giving the medics directions.”
“But Rock’s here,” she said, feeling the weight on her legs. “He always sleeps on my bed.” Reaching gingerly down so as not to make her head throb any worse, she felt across the covers for the big hound.
But now the weight was gone. She could feel the warm place, but no one was there. And, had that weight been heavy enough to be Rock? Was that warm patch of blanket under her hand big enough to accommodate an eighty-pound Weimaraner? She looked up at Clyde. It hurt to move her eyes. “Where’s Rock?”
“Will you lie still?” Clyde eased her back. “You’re hurting yourself. It’s dangerous to thrash around like that. The blood…”
“Where is Rock?” she whispered. Under her hand, the warm spot was already cooling.
“Rock’s at my house. He’s fine, Ryan. Feisty, and missing you.” Leaning over, he smoothed her covers
again. She felt herself drifting, drifting into sleep…
S HE WAS TRYING to climb out of a dark pit, trying to open her eyes and come awake. A voice beside her said, “Ryan?” She wanted to be helped up, to be pulled up out of the darkness.
“Ryan?”
She opened her eyes, and a harsh light reflected on the pale wall, a stark metal lamp so bright it made her head hurt. This wasn’t her studio apartment, she wasn’t in her own bed, she didn’t know this place. But beside this bed, Clyde sat in a chair, watching her. “You’ve been asleep.”
She was in a strange bed, in a strange room, her head hurt like hell. Gingerly she fingered the bandage. “Why am I…What happened to me? I heard Charlie’s voice, and Hanni. Why is everything so muddled?”
“Someone hit you. You have a concussion. Leave your bandage alone, don’t pick at it. Don’t try to sit up, and don’t wriggle around. You had a blow on the head and if you…”
She turned just a little, to look at him, and her head throbbed. She remembered the stone room, Betty Wicken swinging a hammer and a man with a hammer…
“It’s going to hurt for a while. Everyone’s been here. Scotty; your sister, Hanni; Charlie; Wilma; the seniors; Lori and Dillon…Slipping in, holding your hand for a minute, and then leaving. The doctor pitched a fit. But they were here, touching you for a moment like some kind of blessing.”
“How long have I been here? You didn’t say Dallas was here. Where’s Dallas?” She sat upright, jarring a pain through her head that made her sick to her stomach. “Clyde, where’s Dallas?”
“Chasing the bad guys,” Clyde said easily. “Chasing the people who hit you. He’s fine, Ryan.”
She tried to relax, tried to think clearly. “Charlie was here? I’m missing her book signing, her opening…”
Cat Deck the Halls Page 22
